


For the Love of a Human

by Canon_Is_Relative



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s02e05 Amok Time, F/M, First Time, M/M, Pon Farr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 11:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2190438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Amok Time told in three parts. Follows T'Pring, Kirk, and Spock in the days leading up to their encounter on Vulcan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Love of a Human

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Amok Time. Since a lot of this took place within the episode, and simply recapping episodes is kind of boring, I took a few liberties, glossing over scenes and omitting dialogue/plot that anyone who’s seen the episode will know. I really recommend watching the episode before reading this, if you haven’t already.  
> 

**T’Pring**

T’Pring sat silently. The red room was cool and silent, shielding her from the enveloping heat and wasting winds of the desert above, and for a moment she allowed her mind to wander and imagined that she was on another planet. She had never been off-world, never experienced any other climate or culture but her own, but through the bond she shared with Spock, the sensation was quite familiar. With a brisk shake of her head she closed her eyes, reining her thoughts back in.

Spock was very close.

His mind had always been strong. As a child, when they were first linked, the presence of his mind had, at times, been overwhelming to her. She’d learned quickly how to shield herself, to keep his thoughts from intruding upon her consciousness, and when he left Vulcan she was able to push her awareness of him back into a corner of her mind, only bringing it forth at moments of her choosing. His own control must have been immaculate, for she never felt the brush of his mind against hers, never once, in twenty-seven years, had he reached out for her.

Until now.

T’Pring frowned. He must be deep in the grips of the _plak tow_ , she reasoned, to be affecting her thus. Taking deep, steady breaths, she gathered her thoughts and looked dispassionately at the emotions she would be feeling, were her control any less than it was. Apprehension, certainly. Nervousness. Fear? These were all emotions she had long ago left behind, but still knew their taste through Spock’s experiences among humans. As she forced herself to peel back the layers of her emotional response to what she was about to do, a memory came unbidden to the forefront of her mind.

_It is illogical, T’Pring. It is your right, but you are not considering your family, or Spock’s._

_On the contrary, it is most logical, father. As you say, this is my sacred right. Spock knew this when he left Vulcan. And if he has forgotten, then I fail to understand why you would wish me to tie myself further to him._

_You are allowing emotion to influence you._

_If I were, father, it would be because of my long association with Spock. I can tell you, better than anyone, that he has not been immune to the effects of the emotional beings he now lives and serves with._

_T’Pring, you could be responsible for the death of one of Starfleet’s most respected officers._

She thought about that. Through her connection with Spock, she had come to understand from afar the nature of emotional attachments; of affection. She knew that Spock did not care for her, did not want her, and she had come to understand that she wanted more for herself than was offered, than was possible, with Spock. She knew that if her plan was successful, and it would be, a legend would die, and the blood would be on her hands alone. She found that this thought did not trouble her any more now than it had when she had expressed it to her father.

_Spock is flawed, only half-Vulcan, and that half is swiftly losing ground to the humanity within him. I claim my ancient right, for I would not wish such a life for myself under any circumstances._

The memory faded, and still she was left with a sick feeling in her chest as she carefully probed into the depths of this emotion that was threatening to break the tranquil surface of her control.

_Jealousy_ , something within her murmured. Her eyes flew open. _No_ , she thought, re-burying the emotional torrent under layers of calm, logical control. _That’s not the word._

It was almost time. She composed her features, listening for the march of feet outside the door. As she waited she contemplated the red room; buried deep within the ground beneath the sacred ancestral grounds, it had been in her family for over a thousand years. She cast her mind back over the memories of each of the hundreds of generations of women who had meditated here before her, awaiting the arrival of their men to claim them. None had done as she was about to do.

Her thoughts turned then to Stonn. His family was not like hers, he had not been bonded to another in childhood as she had; his father had hoped that he might make a more advantageous match for himself in adulthood, and had declined offers from families of respectable but unremarkable positions. She felt her face soften as she thought of him, of his quiet strength that filled her with a sense of calm security she felt with no one else. Stonn was not a challenge, he was not a riddle. He wanted her. His own pon farr was near, he knew, and he would be drawn to her then. What he felt for her was sacred. It was the ancient bond, a truer bond than any her parents might have arranged. She was his _t’hy’la_.

Footsteps approached, the door was drawn open. Gracefully, she stood, greeting her attendants with a cool nod. Stonn was among them, watching her as carefully as she was watching him. He was dressed for combat; his muscled form beneath the traditional robe was…pleasing…to her. No, she was not worried. Spock, although driven by the _plak tow_ , would be no match for him, a full Vulcan, a master of Suus mahna. But if he were to lose…

The distress this thought caused her was illogical. If he lost, she would continue on, that was all. Spock’s mind was raging with his barely-contained need, and it was taking much of her concentration now to keep him at bay, and she walked with Stonn to the appointed place with unseeing eyes.

Then Spock was there, kneeling before T’Pau who reached out a hand to ease herself into his mind, and T’Pring was, for a moment, lost. She saw through Spock’s eyes, saw herself standing cold and aloof, saw Stonn beside her, felt the flash of recognition pass between the two men. And then…as T’Pau directed her attention to his companions, in a wave of understanding she suddenly knew what she had to do. For here was one that Spock would not hurt if it cost him his life. This was the soul that shone golden in Spock’s eyes, the one who kept him from embracing his bond with her, the root of the troubled feelings that had caused T’Pring to acknowledge what she felt for Stonn even as she buried deep the _jealousy_ , yes that was the word, that he inspired. She understood, then, why the pon farr was affecting him so strongly—to be in the grips of the mating urge and to be kept from the object of his desire by something as thin as duty, as emotional as fear. _Fear_. Spock’s fear was all-encompassing. It underlaid everything he did. Fear of losing control, fear of alienation, fear of rejection from both his peoples, fear of rejection by this Captain, this _Jim_ , fear of losing Jim, fear…All of his barriers stripped aside, the naked truth laid bare for him to see, and she realized in the same moment that he did that he had been hiding all of this even from himself.

T’Pring was breathless as T’Pau broke the meld and she and Spock were left alone in their heads. As though from afar she heard T’Pau’s weathered old voice warn Spock against his association with these Terrans. She knew that Stonn was watching her, but she put him out of her mind for the moment; there was very little time, and she had to think. If this worked, there might need be no death. Honor would not be satisfied—but whose honor? Spock’s? He had very little Vulcan honor, in her opinion, and if he was so desirous of spending his life with this human, ought she not think of him as a human? Her honor would be upheld, she would have Stonn, and she might help Spock to achieve the realization of his long-suppressed desires. She felt an emotion, then, and she searched Spock’s experience to find the meaning of it. She found a word, buried deep, unsurprisingly linked to a memory of Jim. _Giddy_. It was a strange, human word with no Vulcan equivalent. She supposed it meant she was pleased with the idea of getting what she wanted and the possibility of helping Spock. She pushed it down and stepped quickly forward to make her challenge.

The fight began.

T’Pring watched, her mind open to Spock’s, eyes riveted to the scene. She saw and felt Spock holding back, fighting to keep control of his mind and his body as he lunged and feinted, pulling back from killing blows. She felt the internal battle raging, physically painful to Spock, sapping his strength. T’Pau called a halt to the _lirpa_ round after only several minutes. She must have seen as clearly as everyone in the arena that Spock was not trying to kill Kirk, although only she and T’Pring knew why. The _ahn-woons_ were brought out. T’Pring felt a flicker of apprehension as she remembered Spock’s childhood proficiency with the weapon; as he twirled it expertly and dropped into a fighter’s stance she wondered if she had, perhaps, miscalculated the strength of Spock’s self-control. And then suddenly Terran and Vulcan bodies were pressed together in the dirt, grappling for control, and the force of Spock’s arousal was overpowering, pushing him over the edge of reason until he was bent over the lifeless form of his commanding officer, his eyes two dark pools of horror and regret and fathomless loss. His mind exploded in anger and grief and T’Pring pulled back, the physicality of Spock’s rage frightening her. She retreated into herself, folding her hands serenely in front of her, collecting her thoughts as she realized the consequences of her actions here, shutting out the corner of her mind that was wailing in harmony with Spock’s for this death she had just caused.

And then he was in front of her. “T’Pring,” he demanded. “Explain.”

“Specify.” Her voice was a void as she met his eyes, hiding her surprise that, after winning the _Kal-if-fee_ , he was demanding explanation, not the consummation of his biological urges.

“Why the challenge? And why you chose my captain as your champion?”

“Stonn wanted me. I wanted him.” It was the simplest way to explain what she meant, and she expected him to understand, as it was he, after all, who had made her first aware of the value of a relationship based in mutual attraction.

”I see no logic in preferring Stonn over me.” And there it was, that spark of a feeling she had been unwilling to name before. Knowing that he felt it made her want to explain, hoping that he would understand why she had been willing to risk two lives to save the one that mattered to her above all others. Hoped he might forgive her for killing the man he loved in attempt to save hers.

“You have become much known among our people, Spock. Almost a legend. And as the years went by, I came to know that I did not want to be the consort of a legend. But by the laws of our people, I could only divorce you by the _Kal-if-fee_. There was also Stonn who wanted very much to be my consort. And I wanted him. If your Captain were victor, he would not want me, so I would have Stonn. If you were victor, you would free me because I had dared to challenge, and again I would have Stonn. But if you did not free me, it would be the same for you would be gone. And I would have your name and your property, and Stonn would still be there.”

Spock nodded, his eyes boring into hers. “Logical,” he pronounced after a moment. “Flawlessly logical.”

She bowed her head, her cheeks glowing with the unexpected compliment. “I am honored.”

She kept her eyes lowered as Spock relinquished his claim to her. As he stepped away, preparing to beam up, she reached out for his mind to try to gauge his feelings, to figure out how he had suddenly broken through the blood fever, to try to understand the texture of his grief, but the bond was gone; broken, just as she’d planned it to be. Her mind felt suddenly empty. She watched him until he had dematerialized, exploring her newfound freedom within her own mind. Stonn approached her after a moment and reached out discreetly to brush her fingertips, his mind open to hers, inviting their bond. Calmly she broke the touch and walked austerely away, following her attendants out of the arena and back towards her home. Alone with her thoughts, she found she didn’t need Spock’s influence to name this new feeling. _Loneliness_.

 

**Jim**

Jim _was_ busy. It was a line he used to get McCoy off his back when the good doctor was getting on his nerves, true, but today he really _was_ busy. They were en route to Altair VI to play the diplomacy game for the new president’s coronation ceremony—a concept Jim couldn’t help but find ridiculous—and it seemed like every hour more paperwork was coming in; instructions on deportment and conversational topics to broach or avoid and now a detailed set of instructions as to the precise shade of gold he was expected to wear. Not only that but ‘Fleet was still breathing down his neck over his report of the Capellan incident. His mind was full of Klingons and buttermilk yellow and he really, _really_ did not have the time or energy to put up with his CMO’s prying.

So he said, “Bones, I’m a busy man,” and hoped against hope that he would just drop it.

Of course, he didn’t. “Jim, when I suggested to Spock that it was time for his check-up, your logical, unemotional first officer turned to me and said, ‘You will cease to pry into my personal matters, Doctor, or I shall certainly break your neck.’”

Personally Jim shared the sentiment. If he had nagged Spock in the same way as he’d been nagging Jim, with the same biting edge of condescension he’d showed to Chapel…but despite all that, this was still _Spock_ they were talking about.

“Spock said that?”

Before Bones had opened his mouth the door to Spock’s quarters slid aside and there was Spock, as if to answer Jim’s question himself. Jim could only stare, his eyes taking in each subtle difference that marked his Vulcan’s face—the clenched jaw, the narrowed eyes, the flush of his cheeks and pointed ears.

“What is this?” Spock cried, flinging the nurse and her offering of plomeek soup from his room. “Don't keep prying! If I want anything from you I'll ask for it!” The Vulcan stilled as he caught sight of his commanding officer, and in a voice filled with barely-contained tension, said, “Captain, I should like to request a leave of absence on my home planet. On our present course we can divert to Vulcan with a loss of but 2.8 light days.”

Never had he looked so _human_ , and never had Jim been more mystified by him. “Spock, what the devil is this all about?”

“I have made my request,” Spock replied, the strain in his voice escalating until he was nearly shouting. “All I require from you is that you answer it, yes or no.”

The answer, of course, was yes. He all but pleaded with Spock to tell him what was going on, but while he might be a match for Spock in the stubbornness department, he found he was not a match for the raw emotion he saw smoldering in the Vulcan’s eyes. _I need rest_ , he had said. _I’m asking you to accept that answer_. So he had, giving orders to divert to Vulcan. And then countermanded those orders. Twice.

He sat as his desk, signing off on orders. The tremor in Spock’s voice, when he’d confronted him in the turbolift, had been unmistakable and deeply disturbing. As he’d joked earlier, even Vulcan’s weren’t destructible…but he wasn’t laughing anymore and there was no way around the fact that watching one fall apart was acutely unnerving. _God damn Komack anyway_ , he thought viciously, punching a button on his PADD. _There was no reason to jerk us halfway across the galaxy for this little dance party_. Komack had been one of the most vocal in his objection to the way Kirk had handled the Capellan incident, and he had no doubt that this was intended to be some sort of punishment.

And always his thoughts circled back to, _What the hell is wrong with Spock?_.

His door flew open and in burst McCoy. “Jim, you’ve gotta get Spock to Vulcan!”

“Bones,” he groaned, dropping his stylus, “I will, I will, as soon as this mission is—”

“No!” Bones almost shouted, grabbing his arm. “Now. Right away.” The old doctor’s eyes bored into his and he did not relinquish his grip on Jim’s forearm. “If you don’t get Spock to Vulcan in a week, eight days at the outside, he’ll die.” Jim narrowed his eyes, trying to make the words fit, to make any kind of sense of them. “He’ll die, Jim.”

“Why must he die?” Jim turned away, staring at the wall as if the answer might lie beyond them, just out of reach. “Why within eight days? Explain.”

Now that he had Jim’s attention McCoy adopted a gentler manner, folding his arms and shaking his head. “I don't know.”

“You keep saying that,” Kirk ground out between clenched teeth. “Are you a doctor or aren’t you?”

McCoy narrowed his eyes and spoke in the tone he reserved for people—usually Jim—who dared to challenge his medical authority. “There's a growing imbalance of body functions, as if in our bodies huge amounts of adrenalin were constantly being pumped into our bloodstreams. Now I can't trace it down in my biocomps, and Spock won't tell me what it is. But if it isn't stopped somehow, the physical and emotional pressures will simply kill him.”

Jim looked at him for a moment, at the open concern written plain across his face. He allowed himself a moment to consider the irony of that, of Spock dying of emotional pressure with Bones worrying himself sick over him, before cold fear began to set in. If Bones was expressing this much concern over that green-blooded hobgoblin… “You say you’re convinced Spock knows what this is?”

McCoy nodded. “He does. And he’s as tight-lipped about it as an Aldebaran shellmouth.”

That was a challenge if he’d ever heard it and without a word he strode from the room, ignoring McCoy’s call of, “No use to ask him, Jim, he won’t talk.”

He marched into Spock’s room, urgency fueling his footsteps and his demands.

“McCoy has given me his evaluation of your condition. He says you're going to die unless something is done. What?” He received no answer, no acknowledgment that he’d spoken at all. The amused glint in the Vulcan’s eye, his usual response whenever he judged his captain’s behavior as being overly emotional, was missing. Kirk shivered, raising his voice to try and crack that shell. “Is it something only your planet can do for you?” Still no reply, and as Spock moved to set his stylus on the desk, Jim impulsively grabbed his hand. He knew it was inappropriate, that hand-to-hand contact was off limits by Spock’s own particular request. But he _had_ to get through to him. He could not both follow his orders and get Spock to Vulcan within eight days.

“Spock!” He felt Spock respond, felt him flinch away from the touch, his skin hot and papery-dry beneath Jim’s fingers. And he was shaking like a leaf. Spock jerked his hand away from Jim’s and cradled it in his lap. Jim stared at his first officer, who was hunched in his seat like a child with a bellyache, as if to protect against a deep and incurable pain that gnawed away at him from within.  
Personal pleas had failed and he became aware that his own control was wavering. Taking a moment to gather himself back into his captain’s mindset, he continued on a different tack. “You've been called the best first officer in the fleet. That's an enormous asset to me. If I have to lose that first officer, I want to know why.”

Spock rose at last and paced away, gazing into the sleeping alcove that was decorated with Vulcan icons and works of art as if he might draw strength from their presence. He spoke slowly, haltingly, choosing his words with more than usual care.

“It is a thing no out-worlder may know, except those very few who have been involved. A Vulcan understands, but even we do not speak of it among ourselves. It is a deeply personal thing. Can you see that, Captain, and understand?”

“No, I do not understand. Explain. Consider that an order.”

Spock drew a deep breath. “Captain, there are some things which transcend even the discipline of the service.”

_Yes_ , thought Kirk, _There are. Like my love for you, and the fact that I am going to turn this ship around for you if it costs me my career_. “Would it help if I told you,” he asked quietly, moving with light steps toward his friend, “that I'll treat this as totally confidential?”

Apparently that was all Spock needed, for Kirk’s mind was suddenly reeling as he found himself in the midst of the most spectacularly awkward conversation of his life. He found that there was no part of his brain left over for analysis; all his energy was concentrated on holding his face still and forming suitable responses.

“It has to do with…biology,” Spock said.

“What?”

“Biology.”

“What kind of biology?”

“Vulcan biology.”

“You mean the biology of Vulcans? Biology as in…reproduction?” Spock nodded, and Jim felt his mouth go dry. “Well, uh, there's no need to be embarrassed about it, Spock. It happens to the birds and the bees.”

“The birds and the bees are not Vulcans, Captain. If they were…if any creature as proudly logical as us were to have their logic ripped from them, as this time does to us…” Spock sighed, looked down, crossed his arms, _fidgeted_. “How do Vulcans choose their mates?” he continued. “Haven't you wondered?”

_Hell yes, I’ve wondered_. “I guess the rest of us assume that it's done…quite logically,” was the only answer he could come up with, cringing internally.

“No,” came the unexpected answer. “No. It is not. We shield it with a ritual and customs shrouded in antiquity. You humans have no conception. It strips our minds from us. It brings a madness which rips away our veneer of civilization. It is the _Pon Farr_ …the time of mating.”

_The time of…Oh my God._

“There are precedents in nature, Captain…”

_Oh my god._

“The giant eel-birds of Regulus Five, once each 11 years…”

_It’s not possible._

“On your earth, the salmon, they must return to that one stream where they were born, to spawn, or die in trying.”

_This isn’t happening._

“…The ancient drives are too strong. Eventually, they catch up with us, and we are driven by forces we cannot control…to return home and take a wife…or die.”

_Oh my God. Spock is horny._

Jim stood, driven by nothing other than a blind need to be near Spock, to touch those inhumanly hot hands again, to tell him by word and deed that there was nothing he would not do for him; nothing on Vulcan that Jim would not try to give him here, now, every day forever. _A wife…no_. He stood in front of Spock who sat, head bowed over clasped hands, and both words and deeds failed him. He leaned against the wall, eyes taking in the sight of their 3D chessboard, pieces still placed, still spelling out the story of his recent defeat. There was the bottle of whiskey that was at least partly responsible for said defeat; there the book he had leant Spock last week and there his green tunic, discarded as usual as he sat sweltering in the Vulcan-hot room, retrieved from the floor and folded carefully now. The bric-a-brac of their shared life, intimate in almost all of the ways Jim desired it to be, was scattered—in a most orderly fashion—about his XO’s room, and suddenly throwing himself at Spock’s feet seemed impossible. Everything was too fragile. Too much might be broken and lost. If Spock said he needed a wife, that was what Jim would give him, and let the only thing that broke be his heart.

“I haven't heard a word you've said,” he murmured, speaking to the top of Spock’s head. And…I'll get you to Vulcan. Somehow.”

 

He couldn’t look at Bones while Komach shot down his request to divert to Vulcan. His old friend’s look was far too knowing.

“Well, that’s that,” the doctor said as the comm. went dead.

“No it’s not.” Kirk paced, working out his plan even as McCoy groused at him. “I can’t have Spock die, can I Bones?” he finally interrupted, glaring at him, pleading silently with him to understand. “And he will, if we go to Altair. I owe him my life a dozen times over, isn’t that worth a career? He’s my friend.” With that he dropped into the chair and dialed up the bridge where Chekov, the little smartass, had already plotted their third course to Vulcan that day. He cut the connection, and looked up at McCoy. Bones met his look, and after a moment the lines around his eyes relaxed, just fractionally, and Jim thought he saw the shadow of a nod. Some of the tension around his chest eased with that look, and he allowed himself a grin. “So who do you think won the Vulcan vs. Altair pool?” he asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bones replied, gazing innocently over Kirk’s shoulder.

As requested, Scotty gave him better than warp eight, and as they blazed toward Vulcan time within the _Enterprise_ seemed to drag by as if in a mockery of their haste.

Jim did not see Spock again until they were in orbit. He and McCoy went together to the Vulcan’s quarters to rouse him, unsure of what to expect.

Jim paused outside the door, hand half-raised to announce their presence.

“Jim?” Bones asked quietly as the seconds ticked by and he didn’t move. “You gonna be all right?”

Jim kept his eyes on Spock’s door, thinking off the all ways things _weren’t_ going to be all right. He was disobeying direct orders, he was going to be late for an important diplomatic function and, when he did arrive, it would be without a first officer. And once his business on Altair was concluded, assuming he was still in command of his ship, he would be going back to Vulcan with no idea what to expect. Would he still have a first officer? His mind shied away from such horrifying visions and firmly he pressed the door chime.

As he resettled his uniform he looked around at Bones, forcing his face into a lopsided grin. “As long as Spock’s all right, I’m all right. I’m just not looking forward to having _more_ paperwork after I just got through the Capellan mountain.”

McCoy quirked an eyebrow as he searched Jim’s face but said nothing, and Jim found himself looking away first, his eyes burning as he tapped in the override code to open the door.

They found Spock sitting quietly, meditating, looking as collected as he usually did. Jim’s heart leapt, hoping against hope that Spock had mastered himself; that he would not need to be sent down into the arms of some Vulcan woman for comfort. He squashed the thought quickly and a moment later it was buried forever as Spock stood, or tried to stand, and stumbled into McCoy’s outstretched arm.

“Whoa, easy there Spock,” McCoy said, his normal, teasing tone replaced by the gentleness and surety of the old country doctor he claimed to be.

“Forgive me, Doctor,” Spock said after he had regained his balance. “I…have not slept, nor eaten. But I shall be well again, after…”

“After you’ve taken a wife?” Bones supplied as they stepped out of Spock’s room and walked towards the turbolift. Kirk felt his shoulders tense.

Spock did not speak again until the doors had shut and their privacy was ensured.

“It is obvious that you have surmised my problem, Doctor. “My compliments on your insight. Captain,” he continued, turning to Jim, “there is a thing that happens to Vulcans at this time. Almost an insanity, which you would no doubt find distasteful.”

“Will I?” asked Jim, and his voice sounded shrill to his own ears. Turning on an irreverent grin he added, “You've been most patient with my kinds of madness.”

“Then would you beam down to the planet's surface with me? There is a brief ceremony.”

“Is it permitted?” _Oh God, this won’t be fun._ He looked away from Spock and just as quickly looked away from Bones. He had been avoiding his friend since they made their last course change to Vulcan, and for good reason; the pity in McCoy’s face was unbearable.

“It is my right. By tradition, the male is accompanied by his closest friends.”

Jim inclined his head, feeling numb. “Thank you, Mr. Spock.”

“I also request McCoy to accompany me.”

“I shall be honored, sir,” McCoy said with a smile, looking much more the part of honored groomsman than his captain. Jim shot an irritated look at his CMO, a look McCoy acknowledged with only a raised brow and a lift of his shoulders.

And then they were on Vulcan, the hot, searing winds taking his breath away even as the transporter beam crackled around him. Before them a great ring of stone formed a small arena, almost a temple, and it was here, out of the wind, that Spock lead them, told them again about the ritual that was to come. Jim looked around, letting McCoy carry the conversation, if conversation you could call it. He regretted coming, the soul-deep weariness that had been tugging at him since he learned of the _Pon Farr_ was threatening to overwhelm him. And seeing Spock like this seemed indecent. Offensive. And seeing that pointy-eared, arch-browed, smug, smirking little bitch of a fiancé reject Spock, treat him like he was no better than the dirt beneath her shiny shoes, set something aflame in Kirk’s gut. And when she pointed one slender, tanned finger at his chest and proclaimed, _This one_ , he very nearly punched her in the face.

“You can't do it, Jim,” Bones was pulling him aside, speaking gruffly in his ear. “She said their laws and customs were not binding on you.”

“And you said Spock might not be able to handle him,” Kirk shot back, a plan formulating in his mind. “If I can knock Spock out without hurting him--”

“In this climate?” Bones scoffed. “If the heat doesn't get you, the thin air will. You can't do it!”

“If I get into any trouble, I'll quit. And Spock wins, and honor is satisfied.”

“Jim, listen, if you--”

“Bones. He's my first officer, and my friend. I disregarded Starfleet orders to bring him here.” He looked intently into McCoy’s face, hoping to see the same spark of acceptance he’d seen earlier, when he backed his decision to defy ‘Fleet orders. It did not appear. Bones clenched his jaw and listened stubbornly. Jim turned away, his mind made up.

_Spock needs to mate, or he’ll die. To mate, he needs to win. So, I’ll let him win. Take a hard fall, tap out, do whatever it takes to keep Spock safe. No one besides me gets to beat on_ my _Vulcan._

He was so intent on these thoughts that T’Pau’s words nearly passed right by him.

“What do you mean,” he scrambled, “if _both_ survive?”

“This challenge is to the death.”

The world shifted, just a little, and he braced his feet against the sudden sensation that all of Vulcan, like a great red stallion, was trying to buck him off, pitch him headfirst into the stars.

Vaguely he heard Bones arguing with T’Pau, distantly he heard her sharp rebuke. In his head, all was quiet, calm, and he contemplated this. Made himself ready  
.  
Because he was ready; ready to take this fall for Spock.

He can’t quite believe it’s happening, as Spock lunges for him, menacing with the godawful heavy _lirpa_ , as they crash against each other, grappling, parrying, drawing blood, but it is happening. And he’s ready. Ready, willing, to do anything for Spock.

Which was convenient, he nearly laughed—the lack of oxygen was making his head spin; he could not believe he had lasted this long already—as he was about to die for Spock.

He was on the ground, gasping, when McCoy came to him.

“You’re gonna have to kill him, Jim,” he muttered  
.  
“Kill Spock?” he tried to laugh. “That’s not exactly what we came to Vulcan for, is it?” _What did I come to Vulcan for, anyway?_ He tries to work his brain around the question. _To get Spock laid._ Another wheezing attempt at a laugh. _Could’ve done that up in the_ Enterprise _with much less difficulty._

He felt the old familiar pressure of a hypo on his arm—strange, to think it would be the last time—and looked into McCoy’s worried face. “What’s that?

“It's a tri-ox compound. It'll help you breathe. Now be careful!”

“Sound medical advice,” he smirked, hoping the drug would kick in soon because there seemed to be a giant fist crushing his chest even as he tried to stand.

And then Spock was on top of him and they were rolling in the dust, closer than they’d ever been before, and the moan in his ears might have been his or might have been Spock’s and all he knows is that if this is the last thing he remembers then maybe dying won’t be so bad.

 

**Spock**

_Live long, T'Pau, and prosper._

_Live long and prosper, Spock._

_I shall do neither. I have killed my Captain, and my friend._

He could not have explained it. Suddenly his mind was back in control, although he was shaking like, Jim would have said, a leaf.

_Jim._

He pulled himself together, forced himself to assume the outward appearance of serenity, determined to analyze his sudden overthrow of the _plak tow_ once he was safely alone in the brig on the _Enterprise_. Until then he would be still, quiet; Vulcan in form if not in heart. As he turned away he realized the bond between himself and T’Pring was gone. Not that it had ever been much of anything. He had never been able to truly read her through it, as he knew most Vulcan bond mates, his parents included, could. It had never occurred to him to wonder if she could sense him better than he could her. Probably not, he would have known.

The thought occupied him for fourteen seconds, through beam-up until he left the transporter room. It was then necessary to find another subject with which to occupy his mind. To his dismay, there were none, and he walked from the transporter room to sickbay with a cold, slippery feeling of dread growing in his stomach, knotting itself around his heart which seemed to be hammering away at his side with unusual force. He had to remind himself to blink, to swallow, to return the greetings of the crewmembers he passed. _I have killed my captain and my friend._ The words rang in his ears.

He entered the sickbay and allowed himself to feel relief that Jim’s body was nowhere to be seen. He wondered where the Doctor had taken him, if he would be allowed to say farewell to him before he was given over to Starbase authorities. Despite the bile that rose in his Vulcan throat at the thought of gazing upon a deceased body, it would be the human thing to do. He walked to McCoy’s office and the Doctor and Nurse Chapel stepped toward him.

“Doctor,” he began, clasping his hands behind his back, promising himself solitude soon, he just had to get through this conversation. Time for meditation, time for…grief. “I shall be resigning my commission immediately, of course.”

“Uh, Spock--”

“So I would appreciate your making the final arrangements.”

“Spock, I--”

“Doctor, please, let me finish. There can be no excuse for my crime. I intend to offer no defense. I shall order Mr. Scott to take command.”

“Don't you think you better check with me first?” a voice from behind him, a familiar, delightful, but altogether impossible voice. And then a chuckle, a footstep, and the Captain was standing before him, smiling at him, glowing. Alive.

“Captain…” Spock breathed, and when the Terran’s grin only grew Spock grasped his forearms in a bruising grip, spun him around to bring them face to face. It was him, it was—“Jim!”

He did not even register the Doctor and Nurse Chapel slipping quietly out of the room, all he knew was that he had Jim under his hands, pressed back against the wall, feeling the life of him, skin on skin, eyes raking over every inch of him, feeling a growing, nameless need welling up behind his eyes.

The Captain let him look, reaching across him to respond to Uhura’s hail from the bridge. “How about that T’Pau,” he murmured after he broke the connection. “They couldn’t say no to her.”

“Captain…” Spock responded, somewhat alarmed to hear that the tone of his voice has dropped nearly a full octave. Beneath his hands he felt goose bumps raise on the flesh of Jim’s arms, a fascinating sensation. He drew a deep breath, determined not to lose himself in this moment, not before he had an answer. Although which question to begin with? “I am pleased to see you alive,” he said simply. “I am, however, at a loss to understand it.”

“Blame McCoy,” Jim smiled, and Spock was 97% certain that the way Jim shifted, settling himself closer and leaning into Spock’s touch, was not unintentional. “That was no tri-ox compound he gave me. A neural paralyzer…to simulate death…”

Jim’s sentences were breaking down, his breath and heart rate elevated. Spock found this heightened awareness intoxicating. He was _alive_. Jim. _Jim_ was alive. And it was that realization—startling and staggering and altogether overwhelming—that had Spock reaching for him. Needing him. Needing _more_. More skin, more emotion to contend with the tempest welling up inside his chest. Spock loosened his crushing grip on Jim’s forearms, not losing contact as he slid his hands up to his shoulders, stepping closer.

Jim’s eyes widened a fraction before falling half-closed, a soft, smug, happy sort of smirk-smile pulling on the corner of his mouth. “I’m glad to see you too,” he murmured.

Spock’s initial belief was incorrect: Jim _was_ injured. Minor contusions, mostly. But regardless of severity, they were still contusions suffered because of him. Beneath Jim’s uniform tunic he could detect the outline of a bandage. Spock slowly lifted his hand, trailing it over the wound across his ribs and then higher, pressing his thumb lightly along Jim’s jaw, his fingers curling underneath his chin; he gently tilted his head upward, dark eyes concerned and exploratory. It was not that he did not trust Dr. McCoy’s abilities to diagnose and take proper care of his captain. No, that wasn’t it at all.

A ring of skin rubbed red and raw around Jim’s neck, from both his hands and with the _ahn-woon_ ; his brow furrowed—bruises would start to form before long. Spock felt something warm and excited rise up from Jim’s skin, a lick of uncertainty and curiosity and…

Spock swallowed, lowering Jim’s chin, gaze shifting from his neck to his left temple, then his right. A few scratches, scrapes. Shallow and bloodless. The captain’s pulse fluttered in his veins against his first officer’s knuckles, soft but present against his Adam’s apple, causing the hair on the back of Spock’s neck to stand on end. He let go of Jim’s chin, but could not break contact all together: Fingertips ghosted along a sharp jawline, along the edge of a rounded ear, thumb swiping over his cheekbone… but as three fingers traced the lines of Jim’s forehead, he caught a flash of thought, and felt the exquisite pleasure of two minds becoming acquainted as they brushed against each other.

Jim let out a shuddering breath that sounded like his name, and suddenly brought their hands together, tangling their fingers, pressing palm to palm.

Jim’s mind exploded under Spock’s touch.

He gasped, the force of Jim’s mind and emotions crashing over him, breaking in waves upon his own consciousness until he was drowning in Jim. Nothing hidden. Memories. Dreams. Exultations. Despairs. Hopes, wishes, fantasies that had been conceived without any expectation of realization. They stood quietly, Jim’s forehead resting against Spock’s cheek, thinking each other’s thoughts, breathing together. A lifetime’s worth of joy and admiration and love, adoration and wonder and elation, every good emotion that Spock had been repressing since childhood, were offered freely to him now, through both the mind and the senses, by his captain, and his friend.  


**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://anoncomment7.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://anoncomment7.livejournal.com/)**anoncomment7** who prompted thusly: _At the end of Amok Time, when Spock sees Jim in Sickbay and gets all happy and stuff, McCoy says something I'd like to see written. He says something to the effect that if he and Chapel hadn't been in Sickbay, then Spock would've been more emotional or whatever. Well, I think he's right. Spock only clamped down on his emotional reaction when he saw McCoy and Chapel looking at him. So, I'd like to see the scene, if Spock and Kirk were alone. It doesn't have to be like instant slash or anything, actually I'd prefer it not to be. Maybe pre-slash, where each is thinking about their feelings at that moment after everything they've been through. Or, you know, I'm in love with you but I'm hiding it - that kind of thing is always great._  
>  **Originally Posted:** [10th July 2009 at KirkSpock](http://community.livejournal.com/kirkspock/171615.html#cutid1)


End file.
